


she could outshine the sun

by cathect



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluffy, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Modern Era, Pining, briefly sexual?, joffrey is like a cartoon villain, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathect/pseuds/cathect
Summary: “Thank you so, so, so much for this, Sansa.” Arya says, pressing the fabric into the older girl’s hand. “I know you asked mom and dad for only Mondays and Thursdays, but if I miss this practice, Coach Forel will kick me off the team again.” Arya’s a fencer. She’s chatted with him about it before, the few times his preferred spot had been taken and he’d been forced to sit at the counter.The redhead, Sansa, laughs, and Jon is pretty sure he’s misplaced every oxygen molecule he had in his lungs only a moment ago.“I already told you it’s fine, Arya.” she unfolds the apron and pushes it over her head. When she sees Arya still standing there, she rolls her eyes. “Go! You don’t want to be late.” Arya throws her hands onto her sister’s shoulders, squeezing appreciatively. Then, hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she rushes out the door.Sansa watches her leave and, as she’s turning back to go behind the counter, her eyes catch on Jon’s for a moment. Giving him a small nod and a smile, she continues on her way.Jon decides to switch his coffee days to Thursday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was inspired by the prompt: "i'm on the verge of tears because of a rude customer and you step in and stand up for me."
> 
> as per my usual style, this fic has not been proofread.
> 
> it's kind of lame, but i really enjoyed writing it and exploring the extent of jon's pining. i hope you enjoy reading it!

The Stark cafe is Jon’s favorite place in the entire world.

It’s the epitome of coffee shops in small college towns, the owners and workers are all related somehow, and all of the menu items are family recipes. It’s quaint. None of the furniture matches, and all of the customers are always smiling. He adores it.

Every Tuesday for two and a half years, Jon comes in for his usual Black Magic coffee, and sits in the back of the shop while he does homework for his law classes, and then cleans up what other people have left behind as he leaves. He hates the idea of the poor Starks to having to spend extra time away from home just because some assholes don’t know how to use a trashcan… or a napkin.

Then, one Tuesday, a pretty redhead with a nametag he can’t read from all the way in the back comes in. She’s attracted the attention of every male patron, including himself. A good 90% of the Stark cafe’s customers are regulars who have been coming in for years. Jon wonders how he’s never seen her before.

Then the little one, Arya, comes rushing out from the back, black apron in hand.

“Thank you so, so, so much for this, Sansa.” Arya says, pressing the fabric into the older girl’s hand. “I know you asked mom and dad for only Mondays and Thursdays, but if I miss this practice, Coach Forel will kick me off the team again.” Arya’s a fencer. She’s chatted with him about it before, the few times his preferred spot had been taken and he’d been forced to sit at the counter.

The redhead, Sansa, laughs, and Jon is pretty sure he’s misplaced every oxygen molecule he had in his lungs only a moment ago.

“I already told you it’s fine, Arya.” she unfolds the apron and pushes it over her head. When she sees Arya still standing there, she rolls her eyes. “Go! You don’t want to be late.” Arya throws her hands onto her sister’s shoulders, squeezing appreciatively. Then, hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she rushes out the door.

Sansa watches her leave and, as she’s turning back to go behind the counter, her eyes catch on Jon’s for a moment. Giving him a small nod and a smile, she continues on her way.

Jon decides to switch his coffee days to Thursday.

-

The first time Jon talks to Sansa, it’s because she makes him the wrong drink.

Jon tries not to complain, especially to pretty girls, but when she accidentally hands him a coffee with mocha in it, there’s no other option. Jon hates mocha.

It takes him twelve minutes to actually stand up and head her way. During his walk to the counter, he practices what he wants to say a thousand times. But, when he gets up there and she looks up at him, his mind goes blank.

“Hey, Jon.” she says. “What’s up?”

He’s stunned into silence for a moment because she’s said his name, and it looked so nice on her lips. He clears his throat and meets her eyes again.

“You know I hate to complain,” he says, because he does, “but you made my coffee with mocha in it.” Her green eyes go wide as she reaches for the mug, the tops of her cheeks turning pink.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” she says and he rushes to stop her.

“It’s fine.” Before he’s even finished his sentence, she’s apologizing again.

“I was just up late studying, and I’m really only half-awake, and-”

“Sansa.” Without thinking, he’s reached across and placed his hand on her forearm. “It’s alright, I promise.” Her features soften, and she smiles at him. His heart skips two beats.

“Why don’t you sit up here while I remake your drink?” She nods to the stool in front of her and he sinks into it. She almost looks surprised that he does it without much prompting. But, honestly, if she had asked him to run into oncoming traffic, he’d probably be in the middle of the street right now.

From where he’s sitting, he can angle his body slightly to the left and see everything she’s doing. The Starks have always been praised for the quality of their handmade coffee, and it shows in the amount of effort it takes to make just a black coffee.

“You come in every Thursday.” Sansa says, her back turned to him. It’s not a question, but it sort of feels like she’s leading him to continue the conversation.

“Yeah.” Jon answers her not-question. “I like to study in here. The place has a nice homey feel.” It’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. He decides not to tell her the other reason.

“What are you studying?” she asks over her shoulder where her hair is braided in some sort of fishtail. He likes it better when she wears it naturally.

“Procedural Law.” He’s glad he’s mastered the art of answering people’s questions without really paying attention. She raises an eyebrow at him and he laughs a little. “I know. It sounds awful.”

“If you enjoy it, then it doesn’t sound awful at all.” When she turns around, she has his drink in hand and she slides it across the counter to him. He takes a sip and hums happily at the lack of mocha. “Though, it does seem like you had to spend a lot of money on books.” She’s looking over his shoulder at the small library he’s left on the back table.

“That’s a good point.” he agrees with a smile.

-

As the weeks go by, Jon spends more time up at the counter, with less law books in hand. Sansa always seems glad to have the company, and he’s glad to give it to her.

It’s one particularly rainy evening in March. Jon’s come in a little later than normal, closer to closing time. He’d been waiting in his apartment, hoping the rain would let up. When it neared 7pm, he’d figured he might as well just brave it.

He comes into the cafe and takes his usual seat in front of Sansa who offers him a warm smile. She seems to be the only one working tonight, so she’s busy with customers for a bit before she has the time to properly say hello. Her hair is pulled back into a low messy bun, and he lets his eyes linger for a moment on her long neck that is usually hidden. It’s smooth and pale and unblemished and he wants to mark it with his teeth.

He clears his throat, surprised at his own thoughts, as she comes walking over.

“Why do people always want coffee when it’s raining?” she asks, giving him a look of exhaustion. He’s pretty sure that the question is rhetorical, so he just chuckles and shrugs.

He wants to tell her that maybe it’s because she could outshine the sun.

They fall into easy conversation as she takes care of the next few customers who come in and he finds himself not as flustered around her as he once was. Not only is she beautiful, but she’s an absolute fucking delight to be around. She tells him all about the classes she’s taking for her degree in physical therapy and he hangs onto every word.

“When my brother was paralyzed, I went to a lot of his physical therapy sessions.” She’s leaning on the counter on her arms. “None of them helped, of course; he’s still paralyzed, but it helped me realize what I want to do with my life.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother.” Jon tells her the moment he sees the sad look in the edges of her eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s heard Robb or Arya mention him before. Bran, he thinks his name is.

“It happened a long time ago.” she explains. “And you won’t ever see him thinking he’s any different from anyone else.” Her laugh is delicate and musical. He thinks he could swim in it for hours.

“What the hell is this?” a voice asks from somewhere behind Jon. He turns to see a shorter blonde guy with a cruel, pinched face. Sansa just gave him his drink a few minutes ago, served in a to-go cup with a smile. He’d been nice enough then.

“Can I help you, sir?” Sansa asks, seemingly a little surprised by his words. The guy comes up to the counter and slams his cup down on it. Sansa jumps. Jon can just make out the letters  _ J-o-f _ on the side of the cup.

“Why, yes, you can help me. By making my order right this time.” He spits. “I ordered a caramel mocha, and this is French vanilla.” It’s the dumbest complaint Jon has ever heard in his life, but the pure venom in the guy’s voice is surprising. He makes it sound like Sansa just had his whole family killed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry sir.” Sansa rushes, her voice a little shaky. “Let-”

“Well I would hope you’d be sorry.” he cuts her off. “This is such a simple job, a properly trained monkey could do it, and you can’t even get my drink right?”

The whole cafe is watching with wide eyes. No one has spoken up. Even Jon is so stunned he can’t get himself to say anything. Sansa clears her throat and tries again.

“Here, let me remake it for you.” she turns to grab a new cup but the guy has thrown out his hand, grabbing onto her wrist.

“I don’t want you to remake it, you stupid bitch-”

Jon is on his feet in an instant, hand knocking the asshole’s hand away and standing between him and Sansa. The blonde is only an inch shorter than Jon, and much more vile-looking, but anyone watching could tell you who’s in more danger here. Grabbing a fistful of the guy’s shirt, he pulls him closer and stares him down.

“Get the fuck out. And never come back.” Jon says. His voice is low, threatening, unlike he’s ever spoken before in his life. He hopes the scar over his left eyebrow from a childhood accident adds to the menacing look he’s going for. “If I ever see or hear of you being in here again, I will personally beat the shit out of you.” It’s clear that the guy has never had anyone stand up to him in his life, because, despite receiving a threat that is anything but idle, he’s already opening his mouth to protest.

“I’ll have you know-”

“Leave.” Jon says, other hand coming up in a fist. “Now.” The guy finally seems to get the message and Jon all but throws him halfway across the room. There’s a  _ ding _ as the guy exits.

All of the other patrons, who’d been wide-eyed and silent, are now whispering to themselves. Jon ignores them all, turning back to look at Sansa, who’s still backed up against the wall.

“Are you alright?” he asks. She nods, trying to force her mouth into a smile even though she’s wiping tears from under her eyes.

“Yeah.” she says. “I’m fine.”

But she’s not fine. The whole exchange has clearly shaken her up, and it shows on her face until the store closes at 10pm.

Jon is still there, highlighting and scrawling messy notes in the margins of his textbook while Sansa washes dishes in the back. When she comes back to the front, her apron is gone and she has her bag in hand.

The rain is still coming down hard outside, banging against the windows, and Jon knows that Sansa usually rides her bike to work.

“Fuck.” she mutters to herself, pulling on her jacket and zipping it up. Jon looks up from shoving his books into his backpack.

“Let me take you home.” he says and instantly goes a little red at how those words sounded coming from his mouth. “Let me give you a ride home, I mean.” The small smirk on her face said she hadn’t noticed anything was wrong with the first sentence until he corrected himself.

“Thanks, Jon.”

It takes another fifteen minutes for Sansa to officially close the cafe, and then they’re standing underneath the awning outside as Jon tries to make out where he parked.

“There.” he points to his large black truck, one of the few cars still left in the parking area of the town square. The headlights give a brief flash as he unlocks it. He pulls up his hood and Sansa does the same. After a half-yelled count to three, they take off running towards the solace of the truck.

It’s not far, only a few feet, and they’re clamoring through the doors thirty seconds later, laughing all the way.

“God, it’s really coming down.” Sansa notes as she puts on her seatbelt. Jon looks over at her.

He hates himself for how natural this feels, to have Sansa in his passenger seat, laughing as rain drips off her jacket onto the cloth interior of his truck. It all feels familiar, like he’s subconsciously imagined it a thousand times. He probably has.

“Yeah, it’s insane.” he agrees, shoving his key into the ignition and starting the engine.

The car ride isn’t long, but it’s comfortable.

The heater is blasting, and there’s the vague sound of The 1975 playing in the background as Sansa gives him directions to her apartment building. Jon remembers it. When he first moved to town, it was one of the buildings he looked at.

He pulls into a parking spot and turns to tell her goodbye.

“Walk me up?” she asks with a smile. He could never say no to her and, five minutes later, she’s inviting him in and he follows her through the door like a stray cat.

Her apartment is nicely decorated, clean and everything that Jon’s isn’t. The walls are painted a light grey, and there’s a bear-sized German Shepherd looming around that Sansa introduces as Lady.

“You live alone?” Jon finds himself asking as he takes the seat she offers him. Sansa shakes her head, sitting next to him.

“Arya lives with me.” she explains. “She’s probably out with Gendry or something.” Jon doesn’t have to ask who Gendry is - Arya talks about her boyfriend often while she works, whether it be praising him or complaining.

Just as Jon is about to say that maybe he should leave, she should get some rest, Sansa is turning to him.

“Jon.” God, does he love hearing his name on her tongue.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for earlier.” she’s talking about the asshole in the cafe. He smiles at her.

“You don’t have to thank me.” She seems satisfied with this response.

A minute ticks by.

“Jon.”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He hopes his nervousness isn’t given away in his voice. He tells himself to calm down. She might be about to ask him what his favorite color is. He doesn’t know why he automatically assumes the worst.

“You used to come to the cafe on Tuesdays.”

Oh no.

“For a long time, too.” she continues. “Arya and Robb used to talk about you all the time; _the brooding, long-haired guy who studies too much and takes his coffee black_.”

Jon isn’t sure he’s going to like where this is going. He feels like he might jump out of his skin.

“And then, suddenly, you started coming in on Thursdays.” she says. “Why’d you switch?”

There’s a moment, small and fleeting, where he eyes the door behind her head and thinks he might be able to make an escape if he moved fast enough. He could find another coffee shop to sit in, another barista to stare at, to silently fall in love with, but he knows that isn’t even a real option.

There’s only one Sansa Stark, and she’s sitting right in front of him, eyes wide as she waits for his answer.

“I think you’ve already worked out the answer on your own.” he says quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. She worries her lip between her teeth.

“I want to hear you say it.” Her voice is unwavering.

They stare each other down for a few seconds, green eyes challenging brown ones, and he sighs.

“I switched because of you.” He tells her what she already knows. “Because I wanted to see you.” She offers no sign that she had expected any other answer, and, before he can even blink, she’s surging forward and pressing her lips against his.

He’s frozen at first because he can’t believe this is actually happening. This is one of those things that happens in his dreams after he’s had one too many beers with Sam and the boys and allowed his thoughts to wander before he fell asleep. This is the sort of thing that happens in movies.

And, yet, when he finally gets his wits about him, there she is, warm under his fingertips as he cards his fingers through her red hair to hold the back of her head. There she is, letting out a sound of relief at his response and holding onto his face so that the tips of her nails are pressing into his skin gently.

“I thought - I thought maybe you weren’t interested.” her confession spills into his mouth and it tastes like honey and moonlight and relief. “I thought maybe I was imagining all of it, that I was making it up, that maybe you weren’t interested after all.”

“A thousand.” he mutters in response. She pulls back and looks at him, confused.

“What?” The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile.

“A thousand.” he repeats. “That’s how many times I’ve almost asked you out, or that I’ve almost let it slip how badly I wanted to kiss you.” Her cheeks are pink, climbing towards being the color of her hair.

“You could have kissed me any time, Jon Snow.” He laughs at her words because, bloody hell, they could have been doing this for months and they were both too dumb to realize it.

He can’t imagine it, though, her wanting him just as badly. He can’t imagine how her stomach might have done flips every time he walked in the cafe, or the way her hands might have been shaking as she made his drinks.

They barely disconnect on the way to her room. The walk is short and he’s trying to find enough self control deep within himself to not just say  _ to hell with it _ and fuck her right there against the wall. He doesn’t imagine Arya would be very happy to happen upon that.

He closes the door behind them and takes a moment to study her room.

It’s pristine, like she is, with surprisingly little furniture. There’s a white desk in the corner with a laptop half open, and an almost-empty cup from Starbucks.  _ Traitor.  _

When he turns around, Sansa is unzipping her jacket. He watches as she pulls it off of her shoulders and lays it over the back of her desk chair. Her hands touch the hem of her shirt and he moves towards her.

“Let me.” he says. She nods her permission and he grips the bottom of her shirt, dragging it up and over her head slowly. She raises her arms to help and he smiles as he gets it off of her, hands flying to her hips to pull her closer.

Her skin is soft under his calloused hands and he feels like he’s flying as she reaches to kiss him again. He pulls his own jacket off and throws it to the floor unceremoniously.

“The shirt too.” Sansa mumbles and he can’t help but break away from her to laugh as he grips the back of the collar and pulls it off as well.

When his skin touches hers, he swears that there’s steam. He’s always been warm, like the first day of summer, and she’s cold like a snow day in December.

“You’re freezing.” he notes. She pulls away to offer a smirk before taking his hands and pulling him back towards her bed. They stop when the mattress hits the back of her knees.

“Then warm me up.”

He goes slow with her, taking as long as he possibly can - without killing himself - to touch her, kiss her, taste her, in every place he’s ever wanted to; to mark her neck with his teeth like he’s imagined, to feel her shake underneath him.

He revels in the  _ sounds _ she makes - he’s never known anyone to be so vocal - the way she moans and gasps and tells him what she likes, whispering his name like it’s a synonym for  _ fuck _ .

He barely even notices himself in the equation, doesn’t even care about his own pleasure, because she’s warm and wanting and writhing under his touch and he can’t get enough of it.

He would give anything to have her here, in this moment, for the rest of his fucking life.

-

There’s no clock on her nightstand, and his phone is in the truck, so he has no idea what time it is when he’s laying on his back and she rolls over to rest her chin on his chest.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. He tries to blink himself back into reality and then remembers that this  _ is _ reality. He smiles and tucks red hair behind her ear.

“Nothing.” he tells her truthfully. “Absolutely  _ nothing _ is wrong.” She grins and leans forward to kiss him softly.

“You want to know something funny?” she asks.

“Hmm?”

“I messed up your order on purpose that day.” she says. He might have to put a file cabinet in his brain labeled  _ Sansa Stark’s Confessions _ \- not that he minds in the slightest.

“I’m glad you did.” And then he goes back to kissing her because it’s the only thing in the world he could ever want from this moment on.

-

Every Thursday, Jon goes into the Stark cafe to study.

Every Thursday, Sansa prepares his Black Magic coffee and serves it to him with a smile and a long kiss in front of groaning customers.

Every Thursday night, he takes her home.  
  
And Jon’s never been this happy. Because he knows that, one day, Thursdays will turn into forever.


End file.
